2051
by Dreaming of Everything
Summary: AU, gen. In the post-apocalyptic world of 2051, the Autobots land. They are alone. The remains of humanity are scattered and marginalized, struggling. There are no leads on the location of the Allspark. And what happens when the Decepticons arrive?
1. Prologue: The Ocean's Rising Fever

**2051**  
**Prologue: The Ocean's Rising Fever**  
By Dreaming of Everything

**Disclaimer**: I do not own Transformers, I just mess around with it. Likewise, I don't own the poem "The Fever," which was written by Kimiko Hahn; I just shamelessly abuse it.

**Author's Notes**: The prologue's really exposition-heavy, but it's really just the beginning of the set-up of the story. Bear with me at least a little bit longer. None of the other chapters will look like this, I promise.

**Thank you **to my betas:** mmouse15**, who never fails to be incredible; **hradzaka**, who's not at fault--this is entirely my own problem; and **yamihikari**, who's so good at catching those little things, and also understand the beauty of non-dedicated speech.

oOoOoOo

"The coral reefs are changing color,  
the black and crimson bleached away:  
the ocean's rising fever,

in every drop the seas over,  
damages the membrane of symbiotic algae  
and coral reefs change their color."

--from "The Fever," by Kimiko Hahn.

oOoOoOo

"Today, the first of July in the year 2010, marks our inauguration as a news channel! I want us to be known for our journalistic accuracy and credibility… Our devotion to the Truth…"

* * *

_20 September, 2017_

"A new report was released today by the International Global Warming Research Organization, and they say that the world is in _dire_ straights. Several countries have already released statements reaffirming their dedication to the cause of environmental protection; the American government has yet to respond.

"The report starts by restating the now well-known fact that global temperatures are, in fact, rising. They go on to state that the average temperature is increasing by more each year than in previous years, which had already been predicted in previous reports. However, the rate of increase is exponentially higher than had been expected.

"In accordance with this, the commission has re-analyzed their recommendations for preservation. Among the strict new measures they're encouraging are requests for greenhouse gas emissions worldwide to be cut by as much as 80 percent or more; billions of dollars allotted to researching further solutions and preservation measures; a total ban on tourism in highly affected areas, including all coral reefs; and strict taxes and penalties on resource-heavy activities.

"The second part of the report was what the scientists called a 'partial list of negatively impacted species.' They went on to say that they have 'neither the time nor resources to compose a full list.' Many valuable commercial species were on the list, including several varieties of fish, tying into a report made by the National Marine Wildlife Foundation earlier this week.

"In other environmental news, scientists are predicting that this year's hurricane season will be even _worse_ than it has been in past years, despite hopes to the contrary voiced after the devastating storms of last year…"

* * *

_16 August, 2018_

"Today the National Health Organization has announced that cancer and AIDs have replaced obesity and related health problems as their biggest concern…"

* * *

_31 January, 2026_

"Three days ago, the government placed a ban on catching, selling or even eating all non-farmed fish species, and released new, strict regulations on fish farming practices, joining most European nations in a move ecologists say is helping to 'bring us back out of the dark ages.'

"Rioting still continues in Alaska and Oregon as fishing communities respond to the news, and there have already been three reports of movements to form independent nations. It is still unknown how this will affect Native American Indian fishing rights. This is joining news from a week ago that an unknown disease has been devastating rice crops, although it has yet to reach the Americas. For this reason, rice imports have been banned in the United States and Canada…"

* * *

_18 November, 2034_

"Worldwide starvation levels have reached a new high, and scientists are blaming global warming for altering weather patterns, creating flooding and droughts. It is unknown whether global warming is also responsible for the diseases that have started appearing in most major food crops including, most recently, wheat and potatoes.

"Here's our reporter on-site at a demonstration encouraging biodiversity, which some scientists believe will help prevent foodcrop disease. Katherine?

"I'm here with one of the demonstrators, Paul. This is Sindi, who's asked to have her last name withheld. She has informed me that she's a volunteer at a seed bank, where obscure varieties of seeds are stored in case of ecological emergency, such as the Irish Potato Famine. Sindi, what do you have to say?"

"Ten years from now, I'm going to be saying 'I told you so.' This is just further proof that huge farms all growing the same single variety of each crop is such a bad idea… No genetic diversity! One disease they can't protect themselves from, even with the poisons you call fertilizers and pesticides dumped on them, and you lose the world's food supply…"

* * *

_2 March, 2035_

"Rioting over hunge

* * *

r has broken out on _every_ continent excluding Antarctica as the continuing famines go on unabated..."

* * *

_9 January, 2037_

"Unemployment levels in America have reached record highs, although they remain lower than the global average. Officials are blaming this temporary slump on illegal fishing operations, such as the one stretching over four states and two Canadian provinces that was uncovered this week…"

* * *

_17 April, 2039, 2 PM EST_

"—In a totally unexpected and unprecedented incident, _nuclear war_ has broken out in Europe and Asia. It is currently unknown what has sparked the incident and what US involvement will turn out to be—"

* * *

_17 April, 2039, 7 PM EST_

"As the president of our country during this time of war, I find myself struggling to pick the best option for our country and our people. I'm as human as any of you are, and as fallible. I can only do my best, but I know that a majority of you, as the citizens of the United States of America, a global leader in freedom and democracy since our conception, over two hundred years ago, have elected me because you believe that I am qualified to serve our country as its leader in these troubled times.

"Because I believe that the safety of our people is essential beyond all else, I have elected to remain neutral and uninvolved in the current nuclear war. If we are attacked I will, of course, defend our borders and our citizens, our families and our children, but until then I believe the best course of action is…"

* * *

_24 April, 2039_

"New reports show that the short nuclear war that has shaken the world and obliterated most of the Middle East and Eastern Europe was, in fact, a _mistake_.

"An illegal and experimental nuclear-weapons program in a small Middle Eastern country whose name has yet to be released apparently misfired in what has been termed 'a devastatingly stupid mistake' by our previous president, McLane, setting off a chain reaction. 'It blew like a powder-keg,' McLane went on to say. Although he had initially planned to run for another term as president, he withdrew last year saying that he 'washes [his hands of this whole stupid business.' He continues to have a faithful following who hope he will enter late for the '40 elections as a third-party candidate…"

* * *

_29 December, 2048_

"In a completely unexpected move, Australia has shut down all outside contact and completely closed its borders, allowing no movement in or out of the country, keeping both naval and airborne forces patrolling to prevent border breaches from occurring…"

* * *

_5 October, 2050_

"A mysterious new disease has appeared, worrying the scientific community deeply, although the public remains more skeptical.

"'After everything we've been through—the hurricanes from global warming, the Week-Long War, the collapse of every goddamned source of food we've got from meat to produce to starches—what's another problem, let alone a disease? It's better than starving to death because food's too expensive for any average worker and you need a doctorate to get a job as a manual laborer, let alone anything that actually _pays_, and the government certainly isn't going to keep your kids from starving,' writes one of our readers, a mindset apparently shared by much of the public. Studies show that public belief in the government, private and public media, any sort of authority and in the inherent goodness of humanity is at an all-time, unprecedented low.

"The disease's origin has been tracked to the south of Mexico, but scientists warn that they're still a long ways from developing a cure, let alone a vaccine. Containment strategies have been initiated, but some prominent members of the scientific community have expressed doubt that they will be successful…"

* * *

_8 February, 2051_

"Hello. I'm Ian Losh, reporting for Channel 17 news. I'm replacing Keith Lesson, Georgia Kerr's replacement, both of whom were lost in the plague, which continues to devastate the world, although, thankfully, it seems to be dying down in North and South America. The only continent to escape unscathed has been Australia, as far as we know, which has remained in total isolation since before the outbreak, prompting conspiracy theorists to place the blame on them. The government has not addressed such claims.

"The plague has also been blamed for the dissolve of Africa into warring tribal factions, which has been described as 'inevitable' by some experts. 'The political boundaries were all artificial,' says one scientist who asks to remain unnamed. 'In any stressful situation, they're going to crumble, to make way for more natural ones. If there was anything left of the Middle East, it would be the same situation all over again. However, it was fractured _too_ badly, in the Accidental War…'"

* * *

_30 May, 2051_

"In a new emergency situation trumping even the statement that earth's oil reserves have been fully tapped dry, NASA has announced that a large asteroid is on a collision course with earth.

"'We have no idea how this escaped our notice,' said one NASA representative. 'Our best guess is that there was a mid-space collision between this asteroid and some other object, altering the asteroid's path and sending it spinning towards the earth…'

"Scientists have just released another report saying that a strategy to protect both America and the rest of the earth has been developed: scientists will attempt to explode the asteroid before it reaches the earth, splintering it into pieces small enough to burn up as they enter the atmosphere, rendering them harmless…"

* * *

_11 June, 2051_

"NASA has announced that, while the asteroid has shattered, it was larger than expected and it's not known whether the pieces will vaporize as they enter the atmosphere. Whatever happens, it will be a bright night tonight as they approach North America, the only region expected to have any direct hits, although a large enough impact could have world-wide implications.

"Several fringe groups have gained huge numbers in face of this possible 'apocalypse,' making cultists a serious political threat for the first time since the Klu Klux Klan, and religious ones for the first time since Puritan witch-burnings. Astronomers continue to release statements saying that this is a perfectly natural phenomenon, if one with particularly bad timing, and not a punishment from God sent to cleanse the wicked from the earth. Many prominent religious leaders disagree."

* * *

_19 June, 2051_

"—and we give our thanks up to God for delivering us out of the rule of heathens with His gift of holy Fire, which rained down on us through the night and threw up the soil of His Earth to eclipse even the brightness of the sun in the sky. We give our thanks to Him. Amen."

"Hello, there, and good evening! This is Jessica Engstrom, with the nightly news. Thanks be to God for that spiritually enlightening and beautiful prayer, recited by our very own Faith Consultant, Amaiah Ivarson. Thank you, Amaiah!

"And now, I have the new Spiritual Guidelines released by our own American Government, once more in the hands of moral Christians.

"Always remember to refer to our God with proper reverence and respect. If you ever witness some sinner failing to do so, file a report with your local police station, which will be sure to correct the issue.

"Ladies, don't forget that impropriety is a failing in your duty to God. Your hair length should fall below your shoulders and above your elbow, as mine does; no makeup is ever to be worn; all undergarments should be plain. Clothing should be conservative. This will also be enforced by your local police force, starting this Monday."

"Gentlemen, remember your daily Public Prayer, your duty as the gender closer to our God, amen. Also, don't forget your service day! To register, please present yourself at one of the Service Stations in your nearest town.

"Never forget that Sunday is for prayer. Anyone caught doing something else will be publicly executed for crimes to society.

"And don't forget that the natural world is God's greatest gift to us! We encourage you to spend Saturdays in your local park, or in the countryside. There will be rewards for those who worship Him through gardening or other forms of stewardship of our natural world. Those who desecrate it will be punished—report those who fail to honor these rules of simple, good living.

"Ex-President Johnson and ex-Secretary of Defense Keller both continue to resist arrest, and it's believed that they may be working in tandem. Any information relating to their arrest will be rewarded, both spiritually, morally and tangibly.

"In other news, heathen rioting continues and we recommend that all God-fearing citizens stay indoors where our Stewards of the People are able to protect them…"

* * *

_23 June, 2051_

"Rioting continues across the nation, as far as we know, but communication is breaking down. A few areas remain loyal to the now-splintered United States of America Under Our God the Deliverer of Justice Through Fire From Heaven, but our own area seems to be overwhelmingly in favor of anarchical rule. Other areas have started forming their own city-states, but attempts at organization never seem to get very far.

"One of the last schools left in our region was hit last week by a crashing plane; we've recently discovered the source of both the flight and the crash. It was an attempt to reach Australia, whose condition is largely unknown but widely believed to be better than anywhere else's. Immigration here on our own continent seems to largely be northwards, away from the gang violence of the Mexican border and towards the newly-formed country known colloquially as the Canadian North—cold but stable, which is more than can be said of our own home right now.

"It seems unlikely that anyone will receive this transmission, but here's some advice for anyone who is. Be careful when alone; always try to be in groups, and the larger the group the better, although we also recommend that you know who you're with; don't trust just anyone. Stockpile food whenever and wherever you can. It might seem plentiful right now, but it's not going to last. If you can find vegetable seeds or an already semi-established garden, it will be invaluable. Good luck if you depend on medicines; try breaking into a pharmacy, but don't get caught by any desperate drug addicts doing the same. Try to remain human as we all go through this; it's easy to go after the children who've lost everything, but that doesn't mean that you should. Be careful when it comes to organized groups offering you something that seems impossibly good…"

* * *

"Today is the first of July in the year 2051, and this is our last transmission before our oil supply is exhausted and the generator gives out. All other power sources have been lost. I don't know why we've done this, these past months." 

"It's because we decided to devote our lives to journalism back when we were getting our degrees."

"Right. And because there's nothing else to do, is there?

"I don't suppose we have anyone watching anymore, but my thanks to those who are. And I suppose that if anyone knew, I would be somewhat famous. All of us here would. Not everyone gets to give eye-witness reports on the end of the world."

--end Prologue--


	2. Chapter 1: Halley's Comet

**2051**  
**Chapter 1: Halley's Comet**  
By Dreaming of Everything

**Disclaimer**: I do not own Transformers. I also do not own the gorgeous poem (including the excerpt I use at the beginning of the chapter) "Halley's Comet," which is the inspiration for the title of this segment as well. It was written by the extremely talented and now sadly deceased Stanley Kunitz.

**Author's Notes**: …And, basically, another chapter of build-up. But it's a little bit more _personal_ than the prologue.

Thank you very much to my reviewers. And here's to my anonymous reviewers, because I can't send them review replies or emails: Thank you, Kyarorin, chibi-veneficus, kinred, another nameless reviewer and strayfish! You're all fantastic! (And you know it's serious when I feel the need to pull out three exclamation points. I don't do that kind of thing for just anyone.)

Thank you to my beta, mmouse15, who is an incredible help!

I hope you enjoy!

oOoOoOo

"I'm the boy in the white flannel gown  
sprawled on this coarse gravel bed  
searching the starry sky,  
waiting for the world to end."

--from "Halley's Comet" by Stanley Kunitz

oOoOoOo

Judy had always known that she wanted a child. That was just who she was.

And now… Now, the answer as to whether or not she'd ever have one had been taken out her hands.

She was pregnant. A surprise. Four months along. At least she wouldn't have to choose between her job and her child: she'd already been fired. The college she'd been teaching at was about to go under, everyone knew it. The staff was, continually, morbidly surprised it had lasted as long as it had. And a degree in classical Spanish literature had_never_ been a highly marketable job skill, had it? At least Ron still had his job, which was a lot more than most people had, and it looked stable, despite the economy and the layoffs. She should count her blessings.

Blessings like the child she was carrying. She was going to be a mother.

But she felt guilty, too. It wasn't a stable time. Nothing was certain. Everyone followed the news with a nearly religious regularity. Who knew what was going to happen next? Despite the obvious, which was more layoffs and hunger riots and food shortages. It seemed things were getting worse, although Judy thought that things probably felt that way to_everyone_, at any point in time It was historical perspective that really made the difference. She wondered if this would be seen as the second Great Depression and Dustbowl Era, only on a global scale. Or maybe the third World War. International relations were… Tense.

The matter was out of her hands now. She'd have her child. Abortion wasn't an option—or it was, but she wasn't going to consider it—and adoption… The system was falling apart. There were too many babies that families couldn't support, what with the economy, and far too few people willing to take them in. She couldn't put her child into that sort of a situation, even if she wanted to, and she was pretty sure she wouldn't.

Maybe things really_were_ as bleak as they seemed.

But she'd always wanted to be a mother. She thought she might be good at it. She'd try her hardest, regardless. She was positive it was going to be a baby girl, and she'd plant a rose for her birth, out in the garden; she'd been meaning to start a little patch of flowers, anyways. Ron kept on telling her to keep an open mind, but she felt certain. Women's intuition, as her grandmother would have said. She'd always liked the names Danielle and Angelica. A little old-fashioned, maybe, but pretty.

Still, though. She wondered what would happen if Ron lost his job when the baby was still an infant, or a toddler, or a preteen, or a teenager. How long would their savings last? And what would they do after that?

oOo

A son! She was a mother!

Little Sam. Her Sammy. It was like—a bolt from the blue, a sudden meaning and calling. She loved him, more than she could say. He was perfect.

She'd been wrong about him being a girl—Ron would never let her hear the end of it—but she didn't care. She couldn't imagine anything, anyone, better than what she had.

oOo

At least Judy had found a way to make a little more money. She'd looked for work, but there weren't any places hiring that would provide care for little Sammy, or let her do it, and they just couldn't afford daycare or preschool. In a few years he'd start kindergarten—she could find something then.

In the meantime, she was watching her Sam and some other neighborhood kids, for a small fee. It really wasn't much—it just covered snacks, really, with a little left over for the family—but nobody could afford much now, could they? And every bit helped.

Plus it let her work on the vegetable garden she'd put in. At first, it had been a casual experiment: plunk some seeds and starts into the ground, water it every day (at least, if she remembered to) and weed it when she had the time.

But she'd done the math, figured out how much money she could save by growing her own produce, done a little research and then started over. Now most of the back yard produced vegetables or fruit, and she'd started canning. Who knew what new disasters winter would bring, after all.

Judy had been thinking about chickens, more recently: fresh meat and eggs. She'd just have to make sure the kids—and especially Sam, who really was a sweet little boy—didn't get too attached to them. She could see how that could go: 'What's for dinner?' 'Roasted Fluffy.' Maybe she could get a dog—a puppy—at the same time, as a distraction.

Once Sam started school, maybe she could find some sort of retail or waitressing job during the day, and do afterschool care in the afternoons. She already had a few kids doing that, and she'd started getting calls from parents in other neighborhoods, as word went out. But that would all bank on whether or not she could find a job, let alone one with flexible hours. She'd probably need to start weeding in the dark, to keep the garden going. At least the timed drip hose she'd installed—buried under the mulch to prevent excess evaporation!—meant she didn't need to spend time watering, and that she wouldn't need to remember to do it, which invariably meant she _forgot_ to do it, a good portion of the time. The timer had made all the difference to her tomatoes.

Which reminded her, she needed to go find that recipe for tomato sauce. Another day or two and the ones she'd picked a few days ago would be beyond recovery.

oOo

Judy was quite happy with herself when she was only half an hour or so early to pick up Sam from his first day of kindergarten. She hadn't wanted to be late to pick him up on his first day of school, after all, and she'd erred on the side of caution—not even as badly as she'd been afraid she was going to!

So she was waiting by the classroom door, the one leading outside, when the bell rang, giving her a perfect view of her son, who looked quite happy but was dripping wet. –Especially his hair, which looked as if it had had something tacky washed through it as well.

Judy was speechless.

She gathered Sam up into her arms for a slightly damp hug, which he ignored, just tolerating it, greeting him and asking how his day had been and whether he was making friends or not before she asked him what had happened. Sammy looked at her blankly.

"You're all wet and there's something in your hair," she explained gently, trying to keep from sounding angry on the off chance that it wasn't actually his fault.

"Glue got in it," he said matter-of-factly. "Can I go play?"

"Yes," said Judy looking around for his teacher.

Ah-hah. "Excuse me? Mr. Frances?" she asked, coming up behind him.

"Please, call me Thomas," he said, shaking her hand firmly. "How can I help you?"

"I'm Judy Witwicky, Sam's mother—"

"Ohhh. Yes, I understand. Sam is a good kid, participates in class, seems bright, gets along well with all of his classmates—except Miles Gillon. They… He's a little less socialized than Sam is, a little more reserved, more of an _individual,_ if you want to be polite, but otherwise he gets along with all the other kids as well—and I have my suspicions that he's very intelligent. But for some reason, Sam and Miles, they just—Don't get along well."

"And the glue?"

"Well… Miles was threatening to pour glue on Sam because Sam had stolen his seat and started drawing all over his project, so Sam pushed him and Miles lost his grip on the glue container and they both ended up covered in it—that was at around two-thirty, so I didn't have much time, but I tried to get them as washed-up as possible, and it's a water-soluble glue, so things shouldn't be too bad."

"Do you think this is going to continue?" Judy asked. It sounded like a fairly even-handed enmity the two boys had going on, but that didn't mean she wanted it to happen.

"Actually, I wouldn't be surprised if they're fast friends within a week. I think it's equally likely to go either way—and if it's the latter, I'll do my best to keep them apart and out of trouble. I can't guarantee anything, but with a little luck it won't come to that."

"Thank you, Mr. Fra—Thomas." Judy smiled at the man—he looked young, but he was clearly a competent teacher. "I'm glad you'll be teaching Sammy this year."

oOo

The day nuclear war broke out, 2:30 in the afternoon, Judy was at home trying to finishing up the laundry before she needed to pick Sam up from school.

At first, she couldn't believe what she was hearing.

Most of Europe and the Middle East. Just… Gone. A _continent_ that wasn't there anymore. Countless numbers of people dead. A tragedy on a scale she couldn't possibly conceptualize.

She was already at Sam's school, picking up her son, before she thought to call Ron, but the call wouldn't go through—too many other people on their cell phones too, trying to do the same thing.

She lived close to the school, only a few minutes away: the teacher hadn't heard the news yet.

She took Sam home, and Miles, too—the teacher had been right about that, the two boys had become best friends; she had been going to watch Miles that afternoon, while his father was working—because she didn't know if he'd heard. She'd give herself a few minutes to calm down, and then try to track him down at his work. Or maybe if she could get a hold of Ron, he could try to find him while she stayed home with the boys.

Oh God. She couldn't deal with this.

And Sam… He was too young. Six years old, and what would his geography lessons look like?

oOo

Sam knew Miles said his parents argued a lot, too, but he didn't think this was the same. They didn't argue like they didn't love each other anymore. Instead, it was about the news. Sam didn't like how his parents turned it on every day, right after dinner. It made his dad frown and his mom's face go all tight, like how she'd looked when he'd broken a marker by jumping on it—on accident!—on the living room rug.

He tried to be good these days, because Mom and Dad were really tired all the time. They worried too much. He wished they wouldn't watch the news in the evenings. It just made everything worse.

oOo

"_My_ dad says that the president is stoopid and he's gonna get us all shot by the terrorists."

"Yeah, mine too. But then Mommy tells him to not bother my head with all that stuff and then they glare at each other and sometimes he calls her an over-optimistic neo-liberal and then they glare some more and then they laugh."

"Ha! You still call your mom 'Mommy!'"

"Do not! I mean, _so?_"

"I think we're going to deserve it."

"Shut up, stupid, you_always_ think you know best."

"My big brother thinks that! He's sixteen and _really_ smart. So nyah!"

"_My_ big brother'll beat yours up!"

"Will _not!_"

"It doesn't matter 'bought the president. Everybody knows that it's God who's gonna save us all and our trials on Earth are to test our will so the sinners and, and the heathens the—the—w-wor-worshippers—"

"Shut up, you can't even talk! If God does this it's 'cause he hates us. That's what my uncle says."

"God loves us! He does! And I just st-stutter!"

"Awwww, little _baby's_ crying!"

"It doesn't matter," Sam said, speaking up at last. "Let's play tag."

"Of _course_ it matters." The other boy's voice was scornful. "Last one to the tree is it!"

"Hey, no fair!"

"God loves us 'cause we're his sons and daughters," said the last boy to leave—except for Sam—quietly. He wiped determinedly at the last of his tears, and then ran off to join in the game.

oOo

It was Miles' thirteenth birthday—and he was going to take every chance he could to lord it over Sam that he was a teenager and the other wasn't for the four months until Sam's birthday, Sam knew—so his dad had given the two of them some money, so they could get pizza and soda to eat in the park before they had a sleepover at Miles' house. His dad had even rented them a movie, saying that it's not every day that you turn thirteen.

The first protestors had shown up at the park just after them. The place had started to feel too crowded by the time they finished eating. Now it was starting to get dark, and they wanted to go home, and they could barely move. The crowd's voice was a threatening murmur, and Sam couldn't see through or over the mass of people.

There was the squeal of a microphone being turned on, and the people around them were suddenly deathly quiet.

"Let's go," said Miles, tugging on one of his hands. Sam followed him, glancing nervously behind and around himself as he wiggled through the maze of people. Someone started talking, their speech broadcast through the crowd, but he paid more attention to the silent, grim faces around him. They all looked half-starved.

"This is the police," came a louder voice, through a bullhorn. "You are obstructing traffic. Please return to your homes peacefully."

Someone jeered loudly, and then it was quiet again. The people weren't moving. Sam tried to push Miles forward, but he seemed frozen. The air was so charged with tension that Sam felt as if he was having to struggle to breathe.

"Stand down," the policeman repeated clearly, voice sounding nearly panicky.

The world dissolved into chaos.

Sam lost Miles almost immediately. He tried to run after the way he thought he'd gone, but it was too crowded, he was blocked out. He tried another direction, and squeezed his way through. This was the street—someone had broken a shop window, one of the abandoned ones. It was slightly less full than the park, people moving along it in waves. There was Miles!

He grabbed his friend. Both of them were shaking, just slightly, with adrenaline.

"Sam?"

"Yeah. Come on, run!"

Sam had never made it home so fast in his life. His mom was waiting for them on the front porch. Judy threw her arms around both of the boys, and cried out of sheer relief. They both cried too, even though they were both too old for that now, Sam thought privately. Ron joined them, the four of them huddled on the porch, hugging each other desperately.

"You should call your father," Judy told Miles, finally standing up. The others followed her into the house; she locked the door and drew the deadbolt home behind them. 

_Police are recommending staying home tonight as the third riot this month continues,_ blared the radio. Sam snapped it off.

"Are you two okay?" Judy asked.

"I fell," Miles volunteered. And, yeah, Sam realized, his pant leg was torn open, and there was a bleeding cut and a scrape there.

Judy winced sympathetically. "Sam, go call Miles' dad for him," she said quietly, firmly. "Miles, we need to wash that cut clean. What was it from?"

"Glass from a broken window, on the ground. Somebody pushed me."

"Children," hissed Judy, quietly, to herself. Her lips were drawn and pursed, and her eyes looked, to Sam, infinitely sad.

It wasn't until later that night, as he lay in bed trying to go to sleep, that Sam realized he was covered in bruises.

oOo

Miles was moving away, to Alaska. None of his arguments with his dad had worked, not even that they were leaving in the middle of the school year.

"And your sophomore year's important!" Miles had squawked indignantly. Then, more depressedly, "Oh, God, Alaska. Land of crazy loggers and snow and sunless winters and frigging _polar bears._ I'm _never_ going to get a girl now." Sam had laughed until Miles had hit him.

But Alaska was supposed to be safer. More open space, and things were quiet—or at least quieter than everywhere else—up there. And nobody bothered with it anymore. The government didn't even try to run things. Hawaii was supposed to be even better, but you needed money to get there, enough for an airplane or boat, and gas on top of that. Cars were cheap and plentiful, now that nobody could afford gas for everyday things, and easy to steal, if you wanted to, and they didn't take as much energy.

So Miles was moving. Sam couldn't imagine life without him. They'd been best friends since Kindergarten.

oOo

For the first time that year, including the first day, the teacher had no problems getting the class to quiet down. Sam was surprised.

Although maybe it made sense. This was the first day of school after winter break, the first day since Australia had isolated itself. And he was in third period Modern Social Studies.

"Today we'll have a discussion," said the teacher, facing the twenty or so students—somewhere between five and ten more than there usually was, depending on how nice of a day it was. "About Australia closing its borders—and a brief warning, the next essay subject is a comparison and analysis of the situation and Japan's during its period of isolationism. Does anyone want to start us off?"

Sam didn't. He barely ever spoke in class discussions—just twice, enough to earn a passing participation grade. It was more interesting to hear what other people had to say, anyways, and it was less likely to get him in trouble.

Mikaela did, though, and Sam felt his heart thump painfully as she started speaking.

oOo

Sam Witwicky dropped out of high school one month before he finished the tenth grade. He simply told his parents that he wasn't going to go anymore, and that there wasn't anything they could do about it.

Ron Witwicky had argued until he was hoarse and realized he _still_ wasn't getting anywhere.

"Judy! _You_ deal with it! No son of mine is going to be a high school dropout!"

"Where do you get the bruises from, Sam?" Ron's wife asked their son quietly.

"One of the gangs doesn't like me," Sam said, more loudly, in response. "There's only, like, a third of the teachers they need there. Maybe a quarter. Half of the kids have left already. And since Miles moved… He really wanted to keep on going to school, and it's better if you have a friend there, so I went. But I'd like to stop. Maybe I could find a job. And then the government's started getting more aggressive. I think I'd be better off ignorant than in my social studies class—we just watched a movie called 'The Glorious Mandate of American Freedom.' And the army's started showing up all over, and watching the PE classes."

Judy was shocked. "I didn't know things had gotten so bad…" She really hadn't, too.

"Alright," sighed Ron. "Alright. I just don't know what to do…"

oOo

Everyone was talking about the plague, in the sort of hushed whispers that usually mean the speaker was afraid whoever he was talking about might overhear. Every day, more and more people decided to barricade themselves inside their houses. Almost everyone did their best to avoid other people as much as possible.

The Witwicky family was better off than most. They had the garden—and they'd gotten two dogs, to wake them up when, inevitably, at least once week, someone tried to get into it. Judy felt badly about it, honestly, but her family needed the food, too, and so she didn't do much other than feed the people who thought to ask a little before sending them on. She wanted to do more, but…

She always had the news on, nowadays, even though Sam kept on asking her to turn it off. He'd had a job, but he'd quit once they'd reported an in-state case of the plague. He hadn't wanted to, of course, but she'd insisted, and now they were always tripping over each others' feet—figuratively speaking. He helped in the garden, and didn't even complain about it, except occasionally, to joke—he knew how badly they needed the extra food, and the price of vegetables had skyrocketed; nobody could afford them, now—but it didn't keep him occupied, entertained. Even Judy felt restless now and then, and she'd been unemployed for, well, about 17 years now.

Ron had set things up so he could work from home, which was for the best, but at least he still had something to do. And he could help around the house as well: this weekend she was going to ask her boys to move the chicken coop to a new patch of ground. She tried to keep the rotations regular, because fresh ground meant more scavengeable food, and chicken feed was another expense, and they couldn't afford much of anything at this point. At least they could support it well with kitchen scraps—she got them from quite a few of the neighbors, even, in exchange for a few eggs during the summers, when she always had too many. They even put up with the rooster with good grace—although that had more to do with her giving away the extra chicks, when she let one of her hens go broody.

So they were managing, and better than most people. She just didn't know how long things would be… Stable.

She was worried all the time, now. A few days ago she'd realized she'd been chewing on her nails again—and she'd thought she'd broken that habit in the ninth grade. That had been the year 2015; she'd been fourteen years old. She'd written an essay about what the future would look like, and forgotten about it almost immediately afterward. Going through some old boxes she'd found clearing out her parent's house had turned it up again, and she'd sat there on the attic floor, reading it, and cried.

oOo

Judy had been hoping, desperately, that it was just a normal flu, especially since all reports had it that the plague was starting to die down, that things were getting better, and they'd all made it through so far with nothing happening, the three of them—and she'd been amazed that she'd been right when she recovered without much fuss after a week or two.

Then Ron had come down with the same thing, and he'd been much, much worse. She'd been wrong; she was just the lucky percentage who was resistant to it. Sam never got it at all: Judy was—she didn't have words to describe her relief, her joy. It consumed her. He felt guilty about it: as if that fraction-of-a-percentage-point should have gone to someone else. Judy disagreed, fiercely.

But Ron—he was dying. The hospitals weren't admitting new patients, definitely not new plague victims, even now that the outbreak was banking itself, burning itself out.

Nobody knew how many people had died. After she'd come down sick, after she'd been fully immunized, Judy had joined a grave-digging team. She'd gained ten pounds of muscle, and started having nightmares even though she never saw any bodies, as a volunteer, a strange sort of moment of civility—although you saw them in the streets, sometimes, the corpse usually wrapped in a sheet, or at least with something covering its face. She'd quit once Ron had come down sick; he needed constant watching. She fought desperately to keep his fever down, and to keep him hydrated.

She didn't know what she'd do if he died. They'd married the summer after he'd graduated from college, two years after she had: that had been twenty-five years ago. This year was their silver anniversary.

Judy still loved him, with all of her heart. She couldn't imagine life without him.

She'd started praying again, for the first time since she'd been thirteen, the year her dog had been run over and she'd found him dead in the street.

oOo

Sam didn't know what to do. His dad—

He'd had to face the fact that his dad might have been dying. He'd thought he _had_.

But now that it had happened… Now that…

Now that his dad was dead, now that his body had been taken, now that they had a bag of ashes—only partially his, because they had to keep the ovens going constantly, couldn't cremate the bodies one by one anymore—a bag of ashes and little fragments of bone sitting on the kitchen table, because his mom couldn't face them—

He didn't know what to do. He couldn't think anymore. It didn't feel real, none of this did, but it still hurt more than he'd thought anything could.

oOo

Her husband had been dead for two weeks.

She was a widow. Widowed. Her husband was dead. Three months short of their twenty-fifth anniversary. Almost a quarter of a century, but he was dead now.

Judy couldn't seem to stop crying. But she needed to. It had been two weeks, and Sam was starting to look frightened, not just heartbroken.

She needed to be strong, now. Because, somehow, the world had gone horribly, horribly wrong, and now Ron was dead. Her husband.

But her son was still alive.

She'd always wanted to be a mother. She'd done her best to be a good one, even with the world falling apart around her.

She could be strong, for Sam.

oOo

It was midday, the sun bright overhead.

The road was lined with people, all dead silent. Main Street. It had been—normal, once. Sam could barely remember it like that, now. It had just been abandoned for a long time.

Now it was lined with people, a double row: one down one side, and one down the other. They were all blank-faced, solemn and slightly empty-gazed, with the hollow, hungry cheeks almost everyone had now.

One woman was on her knees, sobbing quietly. The preacher standing next to her had one silent hand on her shoulder.

"You waited too long," a man told Sam. He shifted uneasily, and sped up a little.

A meteor was coming. NASA had tried to stop it, blowing it to pieces. It hadn't worked. And now…

Now the world was going to end.

"Brothers and sisters," the preacher said quietly, and nobody had to strain to hear him. A few streets away there was a banging sound, someone playing a radio, a crying baby, but here was just silence. Sam saw another person walking by start to turn onto Main, then change his mind and walk in another direction. The religious freaks didn't see it—they had all turned to focus on him.

"Brothers and sisters, this is the end times. The sky is raining down in fire. Is there enough time to repent now? Only God will decide, but He is merciful."

"Amen," muttered the crowd, the soft sound rippling through them like wind through cornfields.

"He is merciful, and so hope that he has pity on your soul when you have only these last few hours with which to purge your sins from your soul with His divine and loving light, that which will heal us all of our sins—"

Sam walked faster.

oOo

It was over. The new government had fallen, but not before it had dragged the old one down with it. Sam was shaky with shock and leftover adrenaline.

They'd stripped the garden and taken his parents, and told him to pray for his safety. They'd taken the chickens—but not the eggs still in the incubator, so he could always start up the coop again, if he repaired the door and the rips in the fencing.

What did he do now?

They'd said his mom was disobeying God because her 'manner of dress' was 'suggestive.' They'd almost taken him with her for 'failing to discipline her properly.' He was pretty sure they'd chosen them, out of all the people in their neighborhood, because of the garden and the chickens—other people had them, but theirs was—had been—the most productive.

He'd need to see what he could salvage from the garden. He didn't think they'd recognized the potato plants for what they were. And he thought his mom had put seeds away, in case something failed for whatever reason, so they could plant again the next year.

Where were they? His mother. Were they even still alive?

"The end of the world," they had called it. So what was this?

--end Chapter 1--


	3. Chapter 2: Maples

**2051****  
Chapter Two: Maples**

By Dreaming of Everything, betaed by mmouse15

* * *

"_...dreading broken trees, and bones, and cities."_

_--from "Maples" by Donald Hall_

* * *

They seared out of the sky like comets, arcing over the world, deceptively calm, the sheer force of their passage only becoming apparent when they slammed into the surface of the earth, throwing up clouds of dust and plowing furrows in the earth, forcing trees out of their path, splintering them, destroying.

The sudden brightness made them look up, as one. There was only firelight, moonlight and starlight at night, now: and flashlights, sometimes, on special occasions or when it was too dark to get a fire lit. But the flashlights were breaking down, and the batteries were running out, so that didn't happen very often anymore.

There was a whimper, a cry. The last time the sky had caught fire like that, their world had shattered. Was God come to punish the unfaithful? For a handful of seconds, they could almost believe it.

Then they turned back to the fire. It was late, they were tired. Staying alive was an endless task. Survival was more important than the end of the world.

They'd lived through that once already.

* * *

Nobody went to look at the meteors, or where they would have been if they hadn't stood up, moved away. They remembered what had happened, the last time, and it was a dark night. The fires that had seemed like fierce, blazing things when they'd been nine, toasting marshmallows with their dads and moms and brothers and sisters, their scout troop or their best friends, the other kids at camp, had faded with time. They were an unsure comfort against the threatening night: it was darker than it had been before, now that the lights had been extinguished, every one of them put out.

They shivered when the coyotes called—or worse, the wolves—and pressed closer together. They didn't want to leave the circle of light. The night was cold and lonely, and it could swallow you up. No, it was better to stay.

And they didn't want to know what had fallen from the sky. They knew: nothing good. Nothing that mattered.

They remembered.

* * *

Sam woke up tired. It had been a loud night, and it had kept him awake, nervous. He'd heard a pack of coyotes, and the chickens had been nervous—they'd heard them, too.

At least he didn't think he'd lost one. Protein was _important_.

He was tired, but he forced himself out of bed anyway. There was work to be done, because there was _always_ work to be done: the garden, the chickens, salvaging what he could from the ruins of the town. Today was a harvest day: winter was coming. The last December he'd lived through... He didn't want to go through that again. After he got things canned—hope to God he remembered something from helping his mom—he'd need to hike into town, to try and find stuff to help him through, this time. Blankets, sleeping bags, warm clothes—what he had was starting to fall apart.

Maybe he could move the chickens inside. It would stink like birds, and there would be chicken shit everywhere, but it would be _warmer_. Wouldn't it? They were kind of like little heaters...

Sam realized that he was standing by the bed, staring blankly at the far wall. He shook his head to clear it, and quickly pulled on clothes and a jacket. There was work to do. There was _always_ work to do.

He went outside humming to himself. The noise was unexpectedly loud to his ears, in the utter silence of his street. He could remember when there had been noise...

It had been over a month since he'd seen another person.

* * *

Optimus Prime was stunned by the sheer scale of destruction. He'd been prepared, he'd thought, dreaded the possible destruction, but this was worst than what he'd imagined possible.

The whole planet was a wasteland; he had no guesses as to the other species, but the humans were clearly sentient, and for all he knew some of the others. He'd seen more humans in the past week, all struggling to survive even now, long past when whatever had devastated their homes and lives had passed, than he'd seen Autobots in the past century. The fact that they were a far more populous species than Cybertronians had ever been didn't make it any less of a tragedy.

The practical side of him, the side that had kept the Autobot army a force to be reckoned with over eons of war, the side of him that had to make sacrifices, balance and weigh hard decisions, was grimly accepting. He calculated: they knew the Allspark was somewhere on the landmass. They'd need to find it, but there wasn't any information network he could find, not anymore—technology he'd found in ruined houses seemed to indicate that there had been one, once.

He'd found an alt form, but it wasn't going to do much good. There was nothing to power the original vehicles, now, so it was stationary camouflage at best: he could hide among the hulking forms of the slowly rotting cars and trucks, left abandoned along streets or by the side of the road, in parking lots and driveways.

Optimus knew that they could do this. His team had faced down impossible odds before, and they'd always overcome. This was a setback, but it was one they could manage.

* * *

The air smelt of fall and dirt, and Sam let himself be happy. Digging up potatoes, Jerusalem artichokes and the remaining carrots was good work: hard labor, but nothing that needed too much thinking. Sometimes, it was nice just to concentrate on the present, and not worry about what he was going to do tomorrow, in a month, in a year.

He'd finished the row, and Sam turned to start on the next one, nudging a chicken out of the way with one foot. He'd let them out to scratch in the dirt he'd dug up, but there wasn't a one of them that had the sense God gave a rock, and they kept on getting in the way. Oh, well. It was kind of nice to have the noise, so it wasn't so deathly silent: the scratching, burbling coos and the occasional squawk, when one bird found something tasty and another went after it.

He missed _music_. Now...

...Sam was lonely. Some days, he sang to himself, just to hear another voice, which was just _pathetic_. Especially considering his singing voice, which sounded bad even to him. He missed the days of radio and CDs, TV. He missed _other people_.

He missed his parents most of all. He missed Miles. He missed conversation, and having someone to talk to. He missed seeing someone walking down the street and not needing to worry about whether or not they'd try to steal a chicken, or strip his garden for vegetables. Hell, he even missed school—the way it had been before the beginning of the end, without the gangs and when it was still the teachers in control. Even though he hadn't liked all of them, he wanted that back...

No use crying over spilt milk. And he'd already cried for his parents, and even for Miles, when he'd moved. He didn't even know if he was alive, now. He didn't know if his mother was alive. His father, of course, but his mother...

He'd stopped digging, but he didn't have time for that now. No, he had to keep on harvesting...

What on _earth_ could you do with fifty pounds of zucchini? How long would they keep without pickling them? _Could_ you pickle them? They were _kinda_ like cucumbers... Sam had no idea.

* * *

Ratchet was quick to pull himself into the alternate form he'd chosen at the approaching energy signals. Secrecy was key. And, too, the destruction that was written across the landscape was suspicious: it made him...uneasy.

They were on foot, he noted, running scans as quickly as he could, trying to gather data about this complete unknown. They appeared to be a total nonthreat, to Autobots or Decepticons. Tiny, organic, weak, no visible defenses or hints at them. No, nothing to worry about, unless they were even better at hiding their physiological secrets than Transformers were—and that seemed unlikely.

The sheer variety of life on the planet was somewhat astounding. The adaptability—and the sheer numbers!

He was ignored by the first human to pass him, and then by three following him, or her, or something else—he'd heard of genders, before, and there did seem to be some kind of disparity in the physical forms of the different humans, but for all he knew that was an age difference or simply given variation within the species, not sexual dimorphism. Certainly Transformers varied more than that, and they were ungendered.

He wished there was some sort of information network, or something similar. But the way things were...he didn't think the odds were good that he'd find a medical database he could try to decipher, or something he could try and learn the language from.

Ratchet tried not to think about how they were going to find the Allspark like this. They'd split up to try and make it easier, but all their scanners had been able to find were trace remains of Allspark energy over the landmass they'd landed on.

In a way, they'd been lucky. Most of the rest of the world looked like it was even worse shape than this landmass they were on.

* * *

Sam watched the man walking past his window with suspicion, careful not to reveal his presence.

Could he risk it? He wanted to talk to someone, and he thought he recognized him. Had they gone to school together? Maybe. That didn't mean he could trust him. But he wanted to try...

It had been too long. He was going to try!

He stood and ran, bursting through his front door. "Hey, wait!" he called after the retreating figure.

The stranger turned, tense with suspicion. "Hello? What do want—I don't have anything with me!"

"No, no!" Sam said, slowing as he drew closer, not sure how to react. He reached the man, held out his hand—surprised, he shook it. Had his name been Michael? Maybe... Jeff? "I wanted to know if you wanted dinner. Did we go to school together?"

"I went to Tranquility High," he said, voice slightly hoarse with disuse. "Yeah, I might have seen you there—I'm James. Seriously, you'll give me something to eat?"

"I'm Sam. I can get you some dinner," Sam said, thinking of what he had at home. Would it be too bad if James walked off with one of the chickens in his backpack, its neck wrung? Sam had enough food to live off of... He didn't think James did. "I'm set up over here."

* * *

James hadn't eaten as much as Sam had expected him too, but he'd learned about shrinking stomachs when you starved, so he supposed that he shouldn't have been.

"Thank you," James said again, looking relaxed. It made him look younger: his face had lost its pinched, sad look, at least temporarily.

"It was nothing." The response was automatic. It was nice to see that some things were still the same. Sam still knew how to be polite. "Where are you going?" he asked, just to have something to say.

He just looked sad, now. "I'm looking for someone," he said. "My dad. The—the old government got him. Not the freaky God one, but the _old_ one. I think. A hospital took him. During the plague. They were going to test—so there's a chance he's not dead." He looked desperate, afraid. "There's a _chance_. And I can't just let him...if he's..."

"It's easier to stay fed if you stay put," Sam said. "I could give you chicks in the spring, and seeds. I'd teach you how to grow vegetables."

"I can't," James said, face pointed down, his features hidden by the dark. Shadows danced across him, tossed by the flickering candlelight. It was catching a draft from somewhere. "I can't."

Sam didn't press it.

* * *

He'd left a dozen eggs, a few cans of vegetables, one precious can of tuna out on the table, a silent offer. It was all gone in the morning, and he didn't say anything. James ate breakfast with him; Sam pretended not to notice, too, when a few tears gathered, slipped down his face as he ate the scrambled eggs Sam had made. He left shortly after that, and Sam went back to work in the garden.

* * *

It was time to go into town, and the roads were falling apart. He hadn't noticed it so much, the year before, but now there were gaps and bulges, cracks from frost and swollen bumps where tree roots were growing up underneath the asphalt. There were eddies of leaves building up in spots, dust and dirt. Eventually, the roads would disappear...

He'd need to learn how to get around without a road map, by then. If he was still here... Could he leave? Right now, he was tied to his food, the garden, the chickens and the stream, and he couldn't carry enough food for a very long journey by himself. He couldn't take a flock of birds along with him on a journey.

And there was always the chance that his mom would come home. Right? Because she'd been—taken, but that didn't mean that she was dead... It was hard to get around. It could take a long time. Right? So he couldn't leave, because then she'd come home to an empty house, an abandoned garden, and raccoons in the chicken coop, sleeping in the remains of feathers and bones.

* * *

It had been Jazz's idea to split up, so that they could search more ground more quickly than they would in teams. He wouldn't say that it had been a bad idea, but he would have thought twice if he'd known the conditions they were going to find.

Had the Decepticons beaten them to Earth? That would explain the devastation. Jazz had been built to be a spy, and his mind worked the way it was supposed to—a little too much so, depending on who you asked. He thought in circles. And he didn't like this situation. Sure, there were any number of things that could have caused this kind of destruction, but base instinct told him that it was Decepticons, and that they could still be _anywhere_.

He didn't mind that he was alone—that was almost a given when you were in the field, when you were an intelligence officer—but he wasn't going to relax. No, far from it... He had every scanning program he had running hot.

* * *

Sam needed to remember to save seeds. Otherwise, he'd have nothing to plant the next year. That was easy for things like the beans and peas. Even the pumpkins and squash—he'd just let one or two of each ripen all the way, and then get them out. Did the same work for tomatoes, though? ...And he hadn't remembered to let some of the radishes go to seed. Or enough lettuces. Maybe he'd be able to find some more seeds, in town or in one of the abandoned houses down the street... And what about leeks? Did they just kind of split into more, like bulbs did? He _thought_ bulbs did that. But his mother had been the gardener. He'd learned how to weed, and to plant to some things; how to do every-day things.

The first time he'd killed and plucked a chicken had been—horrifying. He'd thrown up behind the wood shed before he'd finished. But he'd done it, because he'd needed to. That was thing: he _needed_ to learn how to do these things.

* * *

On one level, Ironhide was incensed by the conditions the humans were living in. Organic or not, they were clearly struggling, unhealthy and unhappy.

Another part of him was impressed by the job that had been done getting the whole society to that point.

The social isolation. Their shattered society. The sheer _scale_ of destruction... It was impressive.

* * *

Sam missed milk. And cheese. Yogurt, butter, _ice cream_. But it wasn't like a cow was just going to wander into his yard. He wouldn't know what to do with one if it did.

* * *

It was...disturbing.

There had clearly been a thriving civilization here, and not long ago. Now, Bumblebee found himself standing in ruins just starting to disappear back into the strange, alien world, being overtaken by insentient native species.

He'd found a vehicle to scan, but he didn't think it would help. There was nothing here: the roads they'd used to travel were falling apart, crumbling to dust. And there was no sign of the creatures that had built the dwellings themselves: there were organic lifeforms, but they showed no signs of rational thought. And the buildings were built wrong for them.

It made Bumblebee uneasy. It was too much like Cybertron. But it looked like it had happened too quickly...

What could have caused it?

* * *

One of the things Sam looked for in town, the days he took the long walk into the center of what had been Tranquility, Nevada—it was falling apart, and he didn't like to go too often, it was too creepy and even lonelier than his little forgotten fading-into-the-wild suburb—were vitamins. His mom had been big about nutrition, and he ate a lot of veggies, but not much meat, and no milk. He got some iron from things like spinach, but that was only for part of the year—he didn't think you could can spinach, and didn't really want to try. It sounded nasty.

He looked for other things, too. Any meat, even Spam, which was basically all there was left, tasted good now. Sometimes he found chocolate bars, or canned or powdered milk, things he couldn't grow. Bottled water meant less time spent boiling stuff he'd hauled from the stream. Clothes, batteries for flash lights—although there were almost none of them left. He wasn't the only one picking through the ruins of the cities. Although there were fewer people, each time he left... And fewer things. He still tried to brush his teeth, but he knew a lot of people didn't. There was always toothpaste. Things like alcohol had disappeared long ago. A lot of the medicine aisles had disappeared: painkillers, bandages, condoms.

A lot of the houses had been ransacked as well. Their doors gaped open, banging when the wind rushed through the empty streets. The lawns were a foot high and choked with weeds, yellowing with the oncoming winter and tangled over the sidewalks. Leaves lay in eddies where the wind blew them, undisturbed.

Sam saw a deer stepping delicately through the charred shell of the old library. It had been burned, when the government had been overthrown. Now, things were beginning to grow inside it.

* * *

Optimus didn't want to think about how it might have been the Decepticons that had done—everything that happened to the planet. It was torn apart.

That would make it, indirectly, his fault. _He_ was the one protecting the universe from Decepticon rule. At least, he was supposed to be.

It was almost as bad to think that it might have been humanity that tore itself apart. It was what had happened to Cybertron, and the Transformers: they'd been a united whole, once. Optimus would never forget that, or his brother...

He didn't want to think that there was another race out there that had had that happen to it. He didn't want to think of another planet torn in a bloody civil war. He couldn't deny what had happened to the people he had once helped to rule, but he'd like the chance to believe that their situation was unique, that no other group had succumbed to violence on that scale...

* * *

It took him a while, but Sam found a grocery store. It was dark inside, the smoggy light from the dirt-splattered windows not penetrating all the way through the back. He made his way carefully, avoiding the spilled goods, the fallen shelves.

He moved carefully, poking around. You never knew what someone might have missed. That was the best part—he moved carefully, systematically, and sometimes he found something useful.

Turning over a shopping basket, he found a few jars of salt, and took them—they'd gotten wet, probably from a leaking roof, but that was okay. It was just salt. And he'd need it, to keep on pickling. He found a can of evaporated milk, and took that, thankful. A box of macaroni and cheese: he took that to look at once he got back outside, to decided whether or not it was still good. A forgotten bottle of water, he could always use another plastic bottle...

He screamed when he poked at a dark corner, trying to see if there was anything there, and was greeted by the eerie too-human growl of a raccoon; he beat a fast retreat. They could be nasty, and infection was a serious worry. Most of the neosporin, the antibiotic ointment, was long-gone by now.

Going back out into the dim, dusty sunshine of the day made him blink and squint, the light dazzling his eyes.

--End chapter 2--

Author's Notes: Scene breaks are now fixed! FFnet got it's act together, finally.

To Disgruntled: I'm oh-so-sorry that my update speed isn't fast enough for you. Let me put my life on hold to make sure you're pleased, okay? How stupid and silly of me, to have priorities other than fanfiction!

To my other readers: I really am deeply sorry it's taken me so long to update. To make up for it, this chapter is the end of the build-up chapters--we're into the fic proper, now! And thank you very much for all your wonderful reviews!


End file.
